


Special Procurements (Or, the Hedonistic Contracts)

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Porn, Breeding, Explicit Sexual Content, False Memories, Implied Carlos/Nicholai, Implied Snuff Film Watching, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Porn Watching, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rough Oral Sex, Sadism, Sergei is a psychopath and destroys everything he touches, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Spitroasting, Tranquilizers, Tyrant sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Viagra, this is porn but I tried to make it fancy so I am sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24401812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Nicholai is contracted to procure special goods for Colonel Sergei Vladimir's increasingly sadistic needs.He chooses Carlos.[Notes: Heed tags. Chapter 2 now completed :)]
Relationships: Carlos Oliveira/Ivan | Tyrant T-103 Variation/Sergei Vladimir, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Carlos Oliveira, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Ivan | Tyrant T-103 Variation, Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir
Comments: 19
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ohpleasebackoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohpleasebackoff/gifts).



> The few translations available at the end in order.

**I. DAMAGE CONTROL**

Nicholai yawned loudly, casting an idle glance at the clock that was perched in the far-top corner of the small room. His eyes locked on the glossy glass surface of the face, momentarily hypnotised by the swaying hands.

The clock was looming judgementally, clicking its tongue as though to say _'I know what you did._ '

" _Molchi_." Nicholai muttered a snarl in response to the voiceless voice, cocking his lip in defiance. He wiggled slightly in the uncomfortable vinyl seat, crossing his leg casually with a sigh as he took in the clinical smell of caustic disinfects and sanitised linens. He cast his eyes to the floor, tracing the utilitarian patterns in the cheap, off-white PVC. 

A soft whimper broke him from his trace-like stupor.

The white-sheet enrobed form on the bed just feet away from him squirmed. 

Another whimper.

A mop of blonde hair poked out became visible as it tousled on the pillow. Slowly, hazy, dull green eyes fluttered open towards him from beneath heavy, reddened lids.

"S.... Sir...?" Almost a whisper, barley audible. 

Nicholai rubbed his lips together, slipping his linked-fingers around his crossed knee. It took effort, but a plastic, strained smile mimicking something resembling cautious warmth pulled at his pale cheeks. It was an awkward look for him, one he wasn't entirely sure he managed to ever pull off.

"Christian! I am _so_ glad to see that you are finally awake."

The words were choppy, robotic, and entirely synthetic. To anyone in their full faculties, Nicholai's display of faux-pleasantries would have been akin to witnessing a horse trotting on its hind legs. 

"W... wh... what happe.. happened, S-sir...?" The mercenary's voice was quivering. 

"Oh boy!" Nicholai huffed comically, eyes widening in performative shock as he mulled over en entirely fabricated series of events, "You really don't remember hitting your head, do you?"

"H-hitt-- my h-head?"

Nicholai nodded, sucking his lips against his teeth, hating every moment his voice was a simulacrum of **_nice_**. "Yes! You hit your head! You fell on the stairs."

The young man brought a shaky hand to his head, dry lips making taut smacking noises as they moved without sound. He was feeling for a wound, a bruise, pain. He'd find it, too, right where Nicholai had planted a harsh, controlled strike with a brass candelabrum. 

"Why... does my... stomach hurt?" He asked after a moment of silence, hand falling to clasp his lower belly over the sheets, "It... it all hurts so much..."

The plastic smile had dropped from Nicholai's face, his normally-gaunt scowl returning involuntarily as he assessed the words carefully. Realising his facade had broken, he quickly forced the expression back, as though pulling up a mask that had slipped.

"You were very ill! Vomiting and such..." He shrugged and nodded, flashing a grin of white teeth at the boy, "You still are. But it will pass."

"O... oh... okay..." The young man whimpered, swallowing hard. 

Nicholai made his exit as the tiny brunette nurse poked her head in the room, a small tray of medication held at her bosom.

The boy didn't notice him deposit a few crisp, folded $100 bills on the tray as he passed her. No one ever did.

**II. CONTRACT**

"I'm not in trouble... am I?"

Carlos' leg was bouncing nervously, causing a slight reverberation against the desk. The brass handles of the drawers were jittering slightly as the vibrations rattled through the wood -- it was annoying Nicholai as he thumbed through the younger man's file slowly.

"No..." He looked up, "Stop that." He snapped.

The bouncing stopped immediately. 

"Sorry."

Nicholai's eyes floated back down to the file, taking in the small headshot photo that was clipped to the first, thin page inside of the manila folder. The young man sitting before him looked slightly different than he did in the picture -- an obvious requisition from the prison he had been acquired from prior to his transfer to the UBCS facility. His cheeks were fuller, his skin more radiant, his hair shinier, eyes brighter -- perhaps all a result of access to consistent nutrition, exercise, and hygiene. He was only 18 in the file photo, and yet and looked infinitely older than he did sitting at his desk, one year aged.

He abruptly set the pages of the file down, looking up with a pensive expression, lips pursed in consideration as he began a pitch that had become almost automatic to him. 

"I called you here because I've been asked to procure one of our mercenaries for a specialty contract..." Nicholai said with a sigh, "And you have an excellent background in..." He cast a glance down at the page rapidly, the qualifications escaping him momentarily, "-- heavy weaponry."

Carlos perked up slightly, shoulders relaxing at his sides as a slight smile came across his face. "Oh..." He brought the back of his hand up to his forehead and mimed swiping away invisible sweat with a curt laugh, "Phew."

The young man began asking him questions, making casual light-talk. He drowned it out as his hands methodically began to move to the next part of the routine.

Nicholai closed the file, opening the closest right-hand desk drawer to his hip and grabbing a thin, narrow maroon folder that cryptically made up that drawer's only contents. The papers contained within it were delicate and almost Bible-transparent, emblazoned with a black wall of text and that red-and-white logo that had become synonymous with his day-to-day life. He slid one of the sheets from the short stack, pressing it across the wood desk. He procured a pen, the tip _clicking_ contentedly as he prepared it in advance before dropping it beside the paper. 

"Sign it."

Carlos' chocolate eyes danced around the sheet for a moment, widening slightly at the intricacy of the stationary. He'd never seen such a fragile-looking document. 

"A... non-disclosure agreement, Sergeant?"

"You cannot disclose this to anyone or you will be terminated from your position immediately." Nicholai smirked, "Standard for special procurements. Brown-suit legal nonsense."

The young man picked up the pen idly, eyes still darting over the words, trying to make sense of whatever he could as he slowly signed where a bold, black **x** was demanding compliance.

"Who's... Sergei Vladim-- Oh, is that the Colonel? The one Mikhail's mentioned?" Carlos slide the delicate paper back towards the older man.

"Mm." Nicholai inspected the paper for a moment, witnessing it neatly on a separate line below where Carlos' messy signature was scrawling at a bias. He replaced the document in the maroon folder, sliding it back into his desk without another word on the mentioned name. Again, he launched into a robotic, rehearsed line that flowed from his lips astutely, confidently.

"You will meet me at the car park tomorrow evening at 6. Standard dress fatigues are fine. Equipment will be provided once we make it to our destination."

Carlos blinked, hands wringing in his lap as he took in the blank, expressionless expression on Nicholai's pale face. He rubbed his lips together, silently awaiting words that never came.

"So... You gonna tell me about this mission or what?" The young man smiled softly, flicking his tousled hair out of his handsome face, "Standard B.O.W clean ups..-? Or something special?"

"A bit of both."

For once, it wasn't a lie.

**III. PERVERSIONS**

"Two in a month is too much." 

The jovial, amused laugh that met his concerned venom annoyed Nicholai more than he wanted it to. 

"I am not joking, Sergei!" Nicholai pressed again, taking a frustrated breath through his nose, "This is not easy for me, you know. Victor coul--"

Another defiant snort. "If Victor becomes a problem, I deal with Victor." Sergei purred smugly, tending to the elaborate liquor cabinet before him where he was sorting through the crystal decanters, searching for the ingredients to his his preferred beverage. He paused, "Of course... he's not really _my type_ , but I could find a way to make him useful."

Nicholai rubbed his forehead with a sober hand, sighing in exasperation. His eyes began floating across the inordinately large bedroom. Everything was already familiar to him. The huge bed, isolated in the centre of the room with its looming, wooden posts. The intricate bookshelves lining the walls of the room stuffed with Russian texts, intersected with brass busts of long-dead generals, warlords and Soviet politicians. The large, LCD television in the corner of the room, demanding attention he'd tried not to give it since he'd arrived.

The clink of the glasses and glug of the mixing liquor mingled idly with the sounds piquing through the speaker. 

Screams of agony, fear, torment. Leather on skin. Rattling chains. 

Nicholai set his eyes on the image being reflected on the screen. From the distance he was seated, he couldn't quite tell if the boy's face was simply flushed or if it was bruised, but watching how the boy was being handled by the leather-apron clad man left little room to imagine it wasn't the latter. He was being beaten across his naked belly and genitals with a strap of some kind, one wider than a belt, and pronged at the end.

He'd seen Sergei's little _films_ in the past. The egregiously expensive, custom-ordered videos available to anyone with enough money and the right connections. And Sergei Vladimir had plenty of both.

"How old is this one?" He asked idly, accepting the lowball from Sergei while continuing to focus on the screen.

"Of age. I'm not a monster!" Sergei asserted, mock-offence in his deep voice. He stopped to take a shallow sip from his own glass, licking his lips into a devious, unholy smirk after swallowing the caustic liquor, "But thats as old as he'll be getting, poor boy."

"Where is he from?"

Sergei pursed his lips as he thought, "I believe they said he was Belarusian."

"Always eastern bloc." Nicholai took a swig of his drink just as a blood-curdling scream bellowed from the television.

"Well, you can thank the Americans for destroying our Uni--" Sergei's nationalistic sneer was interrupted by the door to the bedroom swinging open unceremoniously, robotic bootsteps treading dampened by the carpet.

"Oh, Ivan."

**IV. HEDONISM**

Sergei's fingers danced along Carlos' jawline delicately. He was humming. 

Nicholai watched the older man sit next to the unconscious body which had been plopped in the centre of the bed haphazardly by the humanoid B.O.W. He'd undressed him for Sergei's assessment after the Ivans had brought him up from the car, where he'd been unconscious since administering the tranquilliser shortly after leaving the UBCS facility.

The Colonel was looking the young man over intently, good eye glimmering as it waded through every nook and cranny, every contour of muscle, every tuft of dark hair. His hand fell to the deep, red needle mark that was on Carlos' neck, stroking it with a gentle thumb. It began to dance down the tendon, sliding into the deep crevice of his collarbone. From there, more fingers joined it, venturing down Carlos' right breast, brushing past his nipple. Sergei sighed deeply.

There was no silence, though no words were being spoken. The television had been continuously blaring the sounds of endless torment. The boy's screams were getting weaker now. Like everything else, it was just an annoyance.

"Good?" Nicholai asked after a moment, crossing his arms.

"Mmhm." Sergei looked up, cheeks pulling at his lips until bright, white teeth were visible, "He's good. What is his name?"

"Carlos Oliveira."

"Carlos..." The name was so foreign to Sergei, who breathed it out with a reverence, pausing on each syllable momentarily before continuing to the next. His smile became wider, brighter. "And where is he from?"

"Colombia." Nicholai shrugged, "He was with the communists there. Thought you'd appreciate that, at least."

"So cute!" Sergei squeaked, a giddiness vibrating through his wiggling body like a schoolgirl. 

Nicholai rolled his eyes, turning on his heels and striding across the room to grab the leather satchel he'd brought with him. One of the Ivans was standing in the way of the dark brown bag, forcing him to awkwardly reach around it's hip to snatch it from the console table. Returning to the bed, he began rummaging through the bag for the tools he needed. 

Sergei stood, undoing his limiter trench coat as he walked back to the liquor cabinet where he'd abandoned his mixed vodka after the Ivans had arrived with Carlos. Nicholai noted that he could hear the rustle of fabric clearly. The boy from the movie wasn't making anymore noises. He was almost glad.

His rummaging produced a well-used small, vinyl bag emblazoned with the Umbrella logo. Unzipping it, he pulled out a simple, rubber tourniquet, a fresh pair of blue, latex gloves, and a clean insulin needle, of which there was a small stack inside the kit. Finally, he sorted through the little, single-shot amber vials clinking chipperly at the bottom, searching for the three he desired to utilise that night. 

The gloves smelled like talc, puffs of powder dusting out from his wrists as he snapped them on, squeezing his fingers together to ensure they were on tightly. 

He slipped the tourniquet around Carlos' nearest arm, tying it off just above the elbow and turning the arm out to expose the delicate inner flesh. 

While he waited for rivers of veins to emerge from the soft, caramel skin, he unpackaged the needle, tossing the plastic exterior and orange cap on the floor unceremoniously. 

It had been trial and error, finding the right drugs to use. The first young man had a seizure. The second almost slipped into a coma. By the third, he had started to understand proportion and counter-interactions. Sergei wanted a mindless, lust-drunk fuck slave, but one that could still feel and respond to pain. It would have been easy enough, coupling the vasodilators, cGMP blockers, and dopamine antagonists -- but he also needed to ensure their memory was sufficiently inhibited. For that, he turned to an Umbrella prototype called _Nepenthene_ \-- so aptly named after the herb from the Greek tragedies -- a drug in trial for U.S soldiers returning from the trauma of war. 

Precise amounts were drawn into the needle at the same time, the hedonistic concoction mingling in the barrel for a moment as he set the vials down and flicked the shaft a few times to dislodge air. 

Looking down over Carlos' body, Nicholai noticed he had shifted slightly since he'd last paid attention. The young man's head was tossing slowly. The tranquilliser was wearing off.

The timing had been perfect.

"Okay, Carlos. _Es hora, mi amigo_!" He huffed, sucking a breath through his teeth, as he stretched his vein-ridden arm closer towards him.

" _Prostite, tovarishch_."

**V. ASMODEUS**

Like most B.O.Ws, when the twin Ivans were created their reproductive systems were had been fully functional but rendered impotent by a mix of chemicals and technological neurotransmitter inhibitors. Like any other creature, they desired to breed -- but Umbrella didn't want their arcane, perverse reproductive drive to distract their ability to successfully complete missions and submit to orders. The injection of a patented drug, one that was available for purchase to owners of B.O.Ws, served as a proverbial, instantaneous 'on-switch.' 

Sergei, of course, had access to whatever he wanted. Nicholai couldn't help but snort a laugh when the older man opened the top drawer of the liquor console to reveal a well-stocked shelf of the otherwise expensive, limited-supply drug. It was strange to think that the man -- practically a B.O.W himself at this point, with all the viral antibodies flowing through his veins -- often needed it too.

The Colonel tossed him a vial casually.

"How long until the boy is ready?"

Nicholai shrugged, casting his gaze over at Carlos' squirming body as he began to unbuckle the complex clasps on each Ivan's limiter trench. Tiny, barely audible peeps of discomfort fluttering out of the young man's full lips told him the dopamine antagonists -- pleasure inhibitors -- were already starting to work. His skin had also taken on a flush of peachy gold as the vasodilator rapidly increased his blood flow.

"20 minutes or so."

The Ivans let him slip their clothes over their shoulders without any resistance. Sergei had ordered them still.

Nicholai didn't bother using a tourniquet for them, their veins so prominent and clear through the violet-tinted flesh. When he punctured each of their veins, a shock back of greenish-yellow blood vacuumed into the syringe before he injected. 

The effects were almost immediate. Harsh, ragged breaths escaping the beast's as their grotesquely large erections began to harden, so heavy and huge they didn't stand like a man's, but rather twitched and engorged perversely. Prismic fluid began forming at the tips of their monstrous heads, tiny pearls that grew and grew. 

Nicholai disposed of the syringe, slipping off his gloves and dusting his hands of the talc. Turning to look at Sergei, he saw the older man had seated himself in the lounge chair he had once sat in, and had stripped himself of his jacket and undershirt. In his hand, he was casually twirling a refreshed glass of liquor.

The Colonel had a devilish look on his face, amused smirk pulling at his rosey lips. Nicholai's gut sank as the glimmer in the other man's good eye shot through his head like a bullet.

"Don't you da--" He lifted a stern finger but was interrupted before he could finish his threat.

" _Poroda Nikolay_."

"For fucks sake, Sergei!"

The B.O.Ws immediately began grabbing at his shoulders, ripping at the light shirt he'd been wearing. Sergei bellowed a jovial laugh.

"Okay, Okay! Just--" Nicholai pushed the needy hands off, casting a caustic glare at the Colonel who gave the Ivans a quick order in Russian to calm themselves. The prodding became less frantic, but the beasts still loomed dangerously close to him, monitoring his every move as he quickly disposed of his now-torn shirt and undid his pants. 

"Fuck you!" Nicholai spat defiantly, bending to unlace his boots and free himself of his trousers and underwear. 

"Mmm, of course." Sergei grinned, putting a hand over the bulge that had developed in his hips and squeezing it in mocking derision, "But later."

"I thought I was past this." He muttered, silently reflecting on the moment he'd realised his superior's affections were waning with his age, transferring onto those substantially younger than he. Part of him had been glad Sergei's lurid affections were being wrought upon others, especially as the man became more depraved and needy. But part of him boiled with jealously, a resentment that would make offering them on the sacrificial alter to his makeshift God that much easier.

"You'll always be my favourite, _Kolya_."

Nicholai shuddered as he assumed a position he figured would be most comfortable, slipping onto his hands and knees on the elaborate Russian carpet, just before the foot of the bed where Carlos was coming into the full realisation of the drugs. 

This was foreplay. There wasn't much time. 

Sergei barked an order at the Ivans, who immediately responded to their master's words. Nicholai turned and grabbed one of the beasts by the thigh, leading it to his front with harsh Russian he knew it could understand, while the other positioned itself behind him, dropping to a knee between his calves with a loud, animalistic grunt.

Nicholai had momentarily distracted himself with trying to force the Ivan before him to do the same, balancing himself on a single arm while reaching for the tremendous arousal before him. 

"Sergei -- tell it to--" A yelp of pain shout past the words suddenly suspended in his throat.

The penetration was entirely unannounced and unpredicted. In his frustration, Nicholai let it slip his mind that he wasn't dealing with human beings who could time, pace, prepare. The Ivans were beasts with no concern for anything but their own reproductive desires, and the B.O.W behind him had thrust its way into his tight entrance the moment it had the opportunity to do so, the length of its shaft disappearing inside Nicholai's body in a single, fluid motion.

The Colonel was giggling giddily as the younger man gasped in gape-mouthed discomfort, a visible bulge protruding from his lower belly. The Ivan standing in front of him cocked its head in a semblance of curiosity as it looked down upon him, an alien noise reverberating from its chest as it came to realise the presence of a breedable hole before it. Nicholai didn't have a moment to adjust to the incredible feeling of fullness before a tremendous hand was clasping his chin and forcing a rock-hard organ between his pain-parted lips.

The filthy squelching noise that escaped his throat as it was stretched and filled was met with uproarious laugher from Sergei, who delighted in issuing sarcastic, bellowing praise to the Ivans in Russian. Desperately trying to collect whatever air he could through his nose, Nicholai didn't even realise his hands weren't touching the ground, and for a moment his upper body was entirely suspended by the massive erection in his throat. Patting palms downwards for the carpet, he adjusted his position slightly, still gasping and choking as strings of cum and spit gurgled out of the corners of his lips. The Ivan behind him had started to thrust, each deeper and harder than the last, and it felt like an eternity before the one between his lips began to do the same, treating his neck like any other moist orifice and lunging deep penetrations into it without consideration for his very human trachea.

Nicholai slammed a fist on the ground in abject agony, a muffled scream of frustration emitting only as a pathetic bubble from the cock-sleeve that had become of his throat. His stomach was getting stabbed from both sides, causing his arms and legs to quiver in an unholy mixture of intense pain and slow-burning pleasure. 

Sergei was rubbing himself through his pants slowly as he watched the hedonistic scene, still taking gentle, spaced out sips of his vodka. He watched the muscles in Nicholai's strong thighs spasm with every thrust, the tendons in his neck dance in wretched contraction, the cum gushing down his cheeks, rolling under his chin and dripping to the floor like raining crystals. Nicholai was being used like a rag doll, devoid of any retaliation as the B.O.Ws ravaged his insides. 

A muffled scream accompanied the Ivans climaxes, inhuman volumes of orgasm shooting into Nicholai's stomach from each twitching cock. A heatwave of nausea cast itself over Nicholai's head, beads of sweat immediately forming as he imagined every organ in his body inflating with the boiling hot liquid. B.O.W gametes were larger than human ones, more acidic -- Nicholai could always feel them distinctly, the orgasm inside him squirming, pulsating, impotently searching for ovum to impregnate. 

He gasped deeply when the cock left his throat, simultaneously desperate for air and choking on it, cum pouring from his mouth as fast as he could take a breath in. When the Ivan behind him withdrew, he felt a gaping emptiness accompanied by the sound of his stomach gurgling in protest of the abuse it had endured.

Moist, raggedy coughs filled the silence, his body desperately rejecting the fluid that had squirmed into his lungs. 

"Come here."

Nicholai shot a glazed look at Sergei, who was undoing his belt and drawing his zipper down, lusty smirk locked on him as it had been the whole time. 

Crawling was difficult, but less painful than moving to stand. The older man leaned down and took his cum-soaked chin in his hand when he approached close enough, rough tongue dragging along his lips, slurping up the B.O.W orgasm noisily. Nicholai couldn't suppress a groan.

After the Colonel cleaned his face, he leaned back smugly, rubbing his lips together as he reached into his opened zipper and freed himself from the material he'd loosened.

He didn't have to say anything more.

Nicholai took the organ in his tired mouth without protest, delighting in the familiar taste, size, smell. His throat was burning, jaw clicking painfully with every movement, but he worked the stiff, pre-cum soaked erection until his nose was nestled against the dark-grey fabric of Sergei's pants. 

Little, guttural groans breathed past the Colonel's lips, eyes fluttering in pleasure as he noted the smell of sex that was finally circulating through the room. 

Movement from the bed caught his eye, a smile creeping across his flushed lips as a whisper slipped between the moans.

"Our boy is awake..."

**VI. DISCILPINED**

Carlos' drug-induced state was something teetering on consciousness and unconsciousness.

Sitting up on the bed, his body was quaking in desperate, futile attempts to stabilise itself while his eyes rolled behind heavy, hazy half-lids. Tiny whimpers of anxiety were bubbling from his lips. Any attempt at movement was met with a drunken jerk downwards, a haphazard slip, an impotent drop. 

Sergei watched the young man, incapable of taking in his surroundings with any level of coherence, with a child-like curiosity. Lying on the bed beside Carlos, his head was propped up on his fist playfully, good eye glimmering as he took in the vulnerable sight.

His eyes dropped to Carlos' hips, where his arousal was standing strained, red, and painfully erect. Veins danced up the shaft, almost visibly pulsating in need as the chemical cocktail Nicholai had injected him with had flooded with erogenous zones with blood and warmth. 

"He won't be able to feel pleasure, yes?" The Colonel asked, reaching his idle hand out and planting a rough flick against the engorged head of Carlos' cock. The contact caused the young man to bristle, breath hitching in his throat along a tiny yelp of confusion and pain.

" _Nyet_." Nicholai responded, still kneeling on the floor where Sergei had left him, rubbing his stomach softly in an attempt to calm the cramps that had wrought his insides. Taking a deep breath, he clarified, "He's needy, but with the dopamine antagonists, it Is all painful."

Despite the calm, collected words, his voice was hoarse, gritty, and raspy, eliciting a chuckle from Sergei as the other man absorbed the information. 

"Beautiful." Sergei whispered reverently, gaze dancing along Carlos' chiseled body, "Do you think he's ever been taken?"

" _Nyet_. He's a known womaniser."

The Colonel sat up abruptly, grabbing Carlos' throat with a rough hand. With kid-like ease, he manipulated the young man into the position he wanted, not concerned with the meek gasping noises or delicate fingers stroking his hand in a silent, desperate plea. He lay him on his back, dropping his head off of the edge of the bed. The mercenary groaned impotently, whimpering at the sensations his mind couldn't fully process.

" _Vanya, idi syuda_."

One Ivan approached, the other remaining perfectly idle where it stood at the foot of the bed, near an egregious wet spot in the carpet. Silently, Nicholai wondered how the two could always differentiate between which was being called. 

When it came close enough, Sergei reached over Carlos' body and unceremoniously grabbed its massive organ, expertly stroking it a few times to encourage a response and silently communicate intention. A deep, guttural groan resonated from the creature's chest, its hips buckling slightly as its reproductive desires were piqued. Pulling the head towards Carlos' lips, Sergei muttered an order in Russian, a devilish smirk igniting across his face. 

The gurgling, squelching scream the young man emitted when the Ivan penetrated his throat was almost disgusting. Nicholai cracked his neck in sudden discomfort, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of agony engulfing every inch of the room. The breathlessness, the muffled wailing, the hoarse attempts at coughs that ended deep in his throat... Nicholai briefly recalled how painful his first time with the Ivan had been, but at the very least he'd been with men. Carlos had the added torture of the drugs coursing through his veins, the cocktail of which included an inhibitor which prevented his body from utilising the numbing endorphins his brain was releasing in response to the abuse.

Nicholai stood on shaky legs, groaning when he felt more cum dribble down his thighs as he did, and grabbed the pack of cigarettes on the nearby side-table. The harsh burn of the smoke irritated his already-inflamed throat further, but he needed the nicotine. 

He wandered over to the wooden console by the bookshelf, ignoring the psychotic laughs of pleasure from Sergei interpolated over the gurgles of Carlos' destruction. There was an old record player there, one he liked to use whenever he visited Sergei. He hadn't had the opportunity in so long, his reasons for coming becoming more and more obscured by the hedonistic contracts he'd been assigned to complete. 

The Colonel had been listening to Rachmaninoff's _Piano Concerto 2_. Nicholai let the cigarette dangle between his lips as he adjusted the needle of the player out to the edge of the large vinyl disk, pressing a switch on the side of the box and watching it with admiration as the antique machine began to work its magic, transmuting microscopic lines of code into sound.

A bellowing piano intersecting with flowing, coherent violins drowned out the grotesque noises. An ocean of music filled the room, and for a moment Nicholai thought it was strange to feel pain and smell sex, sweat, tears and cum, but hear the shiver-inducing waves of a joyous Russian orchestra.

Just for a moment. Then, he realised with a soft smile he quickly disposed of, it was Colonel Sergei Vladimir incarnate. 

He turned on his heels, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette before plucking it from his mouth. Sergei was hoisting Carlos' legs over his shoulders, looming over the younger man's body with a familiar, sadistic righteousness carved into every pore in his scarred face. 

The Ivan was already pulling out, having filled the young man with its second orgasm of the night. As it backed away, Nicholai could sea streams of pink-specked cum flood over Carlos' face like a perverse waterfall, some flowing back up into his nose and causing him to sputter, gag, and choke raggedly.

Sergei had waited for the Ivan to withdraw before penetrating, wanting to hear Carlos' screams in their fullest, unobscured and un-muffled by the tremendous organ. 

They were blood-curdling, bubbling past the orgasm still flowing forth from his full lips. His pain was being mocked by Sergei's moans, the older man thrusting deeply into his excruciatingly tight entrance. Carlos yelped with every stab, cum-soaked face contorted in misery as waves of anguish bellowed through him, insides stretching around the foreign intrusion that was threatening to rip him in half.

The Colonel chuckled at the hiccuping sobs, at the incoherent strings of nonsense hastily being whispered from a near-unconscious mind that was trying desperately to process and stop what was happening outside of itself. He found a rhythm, pumping deeper and deeper, strong hips jutting against Carlos roughly. Nicholai noticed a flush of lust settling over his cheeks as he dipped down to plant a rough tongue against the sweat-glistening skin below him, dragging it along the boy's sternum before his lips closed around a dark nipple hungrily. 

Sucking. Sticky skin on skin. Gasping. Moist slurps. 

Nicholai closed his eyes, bringing the cigarette to his lips again and drawing a lengthy smoke through his destroyed throat into his lungs. 

Piano. Trumpets. Violins. Abject torment.

"This is such... a nice song..."

**VII. DAMAGE CONTROL**

Nicholai yawned loudly, casting an idle glance at the clock that was perched in the far-top corner of the small room. His eyes locked on the glossy glass surface of the face, momentarily hypnotised by the swaying hands.

The clock was looming judgementally, clicking its tongue as though to say _'I know what you did._ '

" _Molchi_." Nicholai muttered a snarl in response to the voiceless voice, cocking his lip in defiance. He wiggled slightly in the uncomfortable vinyl seat, crossing his leg casually with a sigh as he took in the clinical smell of caustic disinfects and sanitised linens. He cast his eyes to the floor, tracing the utilitarian patterns in the cheap, off-white PVC. 

A soft whimper broke him from his trace-like stupor.

The white-sheet enrobed form on the bed just feet away from him squirmed. 

Another whimper.

A mop of brown hair poked out became visible as it tousled on the pillow. Slowly, hazy, chocolate eyes fluttered open towards him from beneath heavy, reddened lids.

"S.... Sir...?" Almost a whisper, barley audible. 

Nicholai rubbed his lips together, slipping his linked-fingers around his crossed knee. It took effort, but a plastic, strained smile mimicking something resembling cautious warmth pulled at his pale cheeks. It was an awkward look for him, one he wasn't entirely sure he managed to ever pull off.

"Carlos! I am _so_ glad to see that you are finally awake."

The words were choppy, robotic, and entirely synthetic. To anyone in their full faculties, Nicholai's display of faux-pleasantries would have been akin to witnessing a horse trotting on its hind legs. 

"W... wh... what happe.. happened, S-sir...?" The mercenary's voice was quivering. 

"Oh boy!" Nicholai huffed comically, eyes widening in performative shock as he mulled over en entirely fabricated series of events, "You really don't remember hitting your head, do you?"

"H-hitt-- my h-head?"

Nicholai nodded, sucking his lips against his teeth, hating every moment his voice was a simulacrum of **_nice_**. "Yes! You hit your head! In the carpark. Don't you remember?"

The young man brought a shaky hand to his temple. He was feeling for a wound, a bruise, pain. He'd find it, too, right where Nicholai had planted a harsh, controlled strike with a brass candelabrum. 

"Why... does my... stomach hurt?" He asked after a moment of silence, hand falling to clasp his lower belly over the sheets, "It... it all hurts so much..."

"You'll feel better soon. It all will pass." Nicholai moved to stand from his seat, catching the familiar glimpse of the nurse walking towards the open door. "It always does."

Chocolate eyes fluttered towards him again. A dry tongue passed over dry lips.

"I... I had a terrible dream."

"Oh?" Nicholai froze, holding up a hand to cease the incoming nurse. She stopped short, feet away from the doorframe. He slowly sunk back down into the chair, folding his arm behind him cautiously to grab at the emergency vial of _Nepenthene_ in his back pocket.

"Tell me about it."


	2. Re-Procurements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat less-sexual followup chapter, requested and inspired by the lovely Ohpleasebackoff! <3

**VIII. DREAMS**

“Tell me about your dream. The one you had last night.”

Silky words wafted through the silence of the dark room. They danced with the dim bedside light that was painting the walls with a hollow, orange glow. They licked at the white sheets tightly curled around the body on the flat, thin barracks dormitory mattress.

Carlos turned his head towards the words, a soft, pensive smile pulling at his lips as he watched the cigarette’s end glow red like a bullseye for a few seconds before disappearing into the darkness of the corner again.

“You my therapist now?” He croaked a bad joke, swallowing the saliva in his mouth in a failed attempt to coat his dry throat, “I guess you’ve kind of been my nurse lately.”

Nicholai exhaled the smoke he’d dragged from the dwindling cigarette, blowing out of the corner of his mouth in an attempt to direct the stream downwards, away from the bed that was a few meters away from the toes of his boots. The older man shrugged, licking his lips and declining a response.

It wasn’t lost on either of them that his behavior had been out of character, Nicholai appearing at the younger corporal’s room every night and pulling the small, uncomfortable wooden desk chair into the dark corner of the room – sitting, watching, smoking.

Sometimes he brought him food -- light broths and creamed potatoes that were easier to digest in his weak stomach than the usual meals UBCS dropped off at his dorm. Sometimes he brought him medicine. Pills that made sleeping easier, his rest last longer. Nicholai just scoffed every time he asked the name of the pills, waving his hand dismissively.

“ _Something from Umbrella_. _I’m not a doctor. Don’t bother me with this.”_ He’d said initially, acting as though he didn’t have the answers – but his response had changed over time, with new visits. 

_"They helped me… when I was in a similar circumstance.”_

Carlos cleared his throat when it was slick enough to comply, huffing a sigh and adjusting his sheets.

“They’re just bad...” He muttered, “Just bad. I’m not used to having bad dreams.”

Nicholai snorted, “So innocent.”

“You have lots of bad dreams?” Carlos grinned, “Sergeant tough-guy?”

The Russian took another drag of his cigarette, smirking as he let the smoke sit in his lungs – a rush of nicotine flowing through his blood.

“I do not dream.” He said flatly after a moment, exhaling through the corner of his mouth again, “Dreams are pesky and useless.”

“You don’t dream?” Carlos cocked his eyebrow, mulling over the thought in his head. Each night, he learned something new about the older man.

“They gave us injections in the Soviet Union.” He shrugged, tapping his head for emphasis with the butt of his cigarette, “They were worried about soldiers getting… you know… sick in the head.”

“But dreams aren’t all bad.” The younger man said flatly, “Good dreams are nice.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Nicholai didn’t quite understand the expression that tickled its way across Carlos’ face slowly, the twinkle in his chocolate eyes battling the dimmed light of the room like a sunrise beating back the twilight.

**IX. CONTRACTION**

Nicholai watched the Ivan toss the unconscious form on the bed in what had become a ritual preformed with a disturbingly increasing frequency.

"This is risky..." Nicholai muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette, "You are becoming reckless."

The response was jovial, unconcerned laughter. The Colonel was fixing himself a drink. Nicholai pretended not to notice the tourniquet lying on the tabletop surface, alongside an empty vial of that precarious drug Sergei had stocked up for the Ivans and himself. His eyes shifted between the vial and the body on the bed.

Carlos had left an impression on him. Sergei had never asked for a renewal before. 

Re-procuring the young man had been tricky. Offering him more 'specialty contracts' that resulted in him waking up in the hospital would have been impossibly suspicious, so Nicholai had taken to simply tranquillising him whenever he had the opportunity.

 _Sudden-onset narcolepsy_.

A bought-and-paid for diagnosis written sloppily on a prescription pad by a UBCS medic. He’d asked for something – anything -- to explain away the boy’s abrupt bouts of lost time and memory. Nicholai had been in the room, monitoring the interaction after having brought Carlos to the clinic. He'd "found" Carlos "passed-out" in an isolated part of the barracks. Carlos had accepted the diagnosis without much resistance, sighing sadly when the medic advised him he’d be expected to indefinitely avoid field missions.

He'd been easy prey since then. Holed up in his dorm room most of the time, the drugs and routine abuses he endured unconsciously taking a gradual toll on his health.

Nicholai idly obeyed when Sergei ordered him to undress the younger man, sticking the cigarette between his lips and striding over to the bed casually. He watched his hands undo zippers, buttons, tug at fabric -- it was a dissociative process he was only a witness to. 

Carlos' clothes slowly began to pile up on the floor, boots dropping sloppily by the bed. Every inch of flesh revealed was like a metaphorical countdown to a traumatic explosion. There were tiny marks and fading bruises marring the patches of golden skin, ones Nicholai wondered if the young man had even noticed. He'd already injected Carlos with the concoction Sergei had demanded be revised -- more cGMP blockers, less dopamine and endorphin antagonists, more vasodilators. The result was a strained, demanding arousal jutting from the younger man's hips, lips emitting soft mews of delight with every piece of fabric that brushed over it.

When he was finished, he plucked the cigarette from his lips between his index and middle fingers, slowly exhaling the smoke and letting it fall hazily over Carlos' body. There was a soft voicelessness in the room, one underscored by the gentle flow of Tchaikovsky humming from the record player. Nicholai couldn't quite remember the name of the piece, scanning his mind for it fruitlessly. 

It was beautiful, whatever it was.

Inappropriate, but beautiful.

"You too, _Kolya_."

A curt, pointed demand intersected by the chipper clinking of ice against a crystal lowball as Sergei took a sip of his drink.

Nicholai snuffed his cigarette on the bedside table's marble ashtray, slowly peeling off his leather jacket and white undershirt. He watched his hands pull at his belt, undo his button, and slip the zipper of his dark blue jeans down -- again, it became a dissociative process. His clothes joined Carlos', abandoned in a pile beside the bed.

He glanced over at Sergei, who was smirking deviously from where he stood in the far corner of the room.

"What do you want me to do?" He murmured, suppressing a sigh that teetered dangerously between annoyance and reverence. 

"Kiss him. Ride him." The smirk grew wider, a soft, sultry whisper bubbling past his lips slowly, "Put on a nice show for me tonight."

**X. ANGELS AND DEMONS**

“What did you dream last night?”

Carlos smiled when the now-familiar question bubbled through the silence, tossing his head on the pillow to watch the older man occupying the corner of his room. Nicholai was striking the match against the back of the cigarette carton, bringing the wispy flame to the tip of the cigarette dangling between his lips.

“The doctor is in…” His voice cracked meekly, “ _Dr. Zinoviev_.”

“Dr. _Sergeant_ Zinoviev.” Nicholai corrected firmly, taking a drag of his cigarette before plucking it from his lips with two fingers.

The younger man tried to chuckle, but it elicited nothing more than a raspy wheeze.

“Sorry.” Carlos coughed a few times into his fist, clearing his throat and adjusting his tousled sheets, “Can Dr. Sergeant Zinoviev cure this fuckin' narcolepsy?”

Nicholai took another drag, cocking his head to the side, “Not my area of practice.”

Carlos shrugged, rubbing his lips together, "A doctor's a doctor." He shrugged slightly and grinned, "And you seem capable."

The light-hearted banter that had begun emerging in his recent visits made Nicholai uncomfortable. His leg bounced anxiously whenever the conversations they had became amusing, revealing, _interesting_. He didn't know why it bothered him so much.

“I didn’t have a bad dream last night.” The younger man nodded insistently, slowly. “I had a good dream.”

A palpable silence cast its shadow over the already-dim room. The cigarette between Nicholai’s fingers slowly dwindled idly, strings of smoke painting their way through the room from the smoldering tip. Carlos was smiling softly, eyes cast at the wall in front of his bed. There was a twinkle in them, one Nicholai couldn’t mistake for anything but the result of a happy recollection of the choppy frames Carlos had in his mind.

The older man couldn’t suppress a swallow, but he hid it effectively by tucking his chin down, letting his Adams apple bob under the high collar of his grey sweater.

“Carlos." He leaned in slightly, perching his forearms on his thighs, "What was the dream?”

The twinkle in those chocolate eyes got stronger. The smile a bit wider.

“You wouldn’t understand…”

**XI. TRAUMA BONDAGE**

"I am thinking about keeping him."

The caustic liquor sputtered from Nicholai's lips in a hiccup of shock as Sergei's words rolled through the silence of the bedroom, assaulting every cell in his body.

"W... what?!" He coughed, bringing his wrist up to his mouth to wipe the saliva-mingled vodka from where it had escaped from the corners of his lips.

The Colonel shot a surprised look at the other man, eyebrows cocking upwards and lips parting slightly. 

" _Kolya_. What is wrong?"

A headache began to drum through Nicholai's head, beating at the back of his eyes. 

"You have never... _kept_... someone before."

The look of shock that had settled in on Sergei's handsome, scarred face began to retreat, a smirk pulling at his rosey lips and devilish glean sparking up behind his good eye.

"I kept you."

Nicholai set his lowball down, rubbing his forehead with a shaky hand. Unfinished syllables in a random amalgam of Russian and English murmured through his lips rapidly. 

"Oh, _Kolya_..." Sergei purred, voice dipping into a sultry, babyish whine. He lifted a hand, stroking at the younger man's cheek softly, "You aren't _jealous_ are you?"

Nicholai rolled his eyes, jerking away from the touch and eliciting a chuckle from the older man who attempted to offer words of reassurance that were anything but reassuring.

"I would not _keep him_ -keep him... Just use him until he is done."

"Goddamnit, Sergei!" Nicholai turned rapidly and marched to the other side of the room, huffing angrily, arms flailing at his sides with words he did not speak. Sergei watched the scene, head cocked to the side in curiosity as the pensive expression of confusion and shock beat back across his face. He followed the younger man's steps slowly, stalking behind him. 

" _Kolya_..." The murmur cut through a moment of frantic pacing. Nicholai turned around to face the older man, brow furrowed and jaw set. Sergei blinked slowly, processing Nicholai's strange expression for a moment before settling upon an explanation for his unusually erratic behaviour, "I have neglected you, haven't I?"

Nicholai paused, crossing his arms against his chest and swallowing. His eyes flicked over towards Carlos' unconscious form on the bed. The boy was already undressed, but he hadn't administered the drugs yet. He bit the inside of his cheek, silently chiding himself for what he knew he was doing.

"Yes." He asserted flatly, offering a curt, single nod to emphasise his mock-seriousness, "Yes you have."

Sergei sighed deeply, shaking his head, "I am so sorry." 

When Sergei moved to stroke his face again, Nicholai stepped into the touch, unfolding his arms and pressing his chest against the older man's with a confident stride forward. He raised a hand to brush his fingers through Sergei's hair, pushing the greying locks behind the man's ear.

"I want to be able to please you." He whispered seductively, pouting slightly, "How can I when you keep ignoring me for these little boys?"

The older man grinned widely, cheeks pulling his lips to reveal a predatory smirk of bright, white teeth.

Nicholai gasped when Sergei suddenly grabbed him by the neck, pulling him towards the bed and pushing him on with kid-like ease. He fell atop Carlos' legs, panting when air began to rush back into his lungs. Frantic hands began to pull at his clothes -- tugs, tears, and grabs he submitted to, letting the older man manipulate the fabric from his body with excitement. 

Sergei mounted the bed, a standing kneel over Nicholai's thighs -- one of his heavy calves seating themselves on Carlos' chest, unconcerned for the young man's delicate body. 

"Just you and I..." He growled, chuckling when he noticed Nicholai casting a concerned look towards Carlos, who was groaning slightly under the pain of the weight, "He can be our little mattress tonight."

**XII. DEMISE**

"You're the one in rough shape today, aren't you?" Carlos smiled, his voice and demeanour unusually refreshed and jubilant. He was in his pyjamas, sitting on the bed cross-legged and leaning back against the wall, watching Nicholai with a look teetering between amusement and confusion.

The older man was hunched over, unlit cigarette dangling between his lips, awaiting a light that never seemed to come. 

"Mmph." Nicholai grunted, shrugging his shoulders and casting a look downwards at the light-beige vinyl floor while idle hands continued to prod at his pockets for his misplaced lighter.

"You wanna tell me about _your_ problems?" The young man joked, rubbing his lips together, "I can be Dr. Corporal Oliveira."

"Don't get a big head." Nicholai spat, groaning internally when he noticed the hitch of cracking in his hoarse voice.

"Was it training?"

Nicholai had finally located his lighter, stuffed in one of his fatigue pockets. He rapidly brought it to the tip of his cigarette, flicking at it aggressively until it produced a flame. 

"Was what?"

Carlos snorted, "The reason you look like death."

"Oh... Oh yeah. Sure." Nicholai took a deep inhale of his cigarette, closing his eyes in delight when the familiar rush of warm smoke flooded his lungs.

The younger man smirked, "I don't miss that." He asserted in amusement, "Maybe this being sick thing isn't so bad."

Nicholai brought his thumb and forefinger up to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly, plucking the cigarette from his lips with his other hand. Carlos watched the physical display of exasperation and exhaustion in silence for a few silent moments, eyes scanning what of the older man's face he could peer through his hands. 

Stress. Anxiety. Exhaustion.

The Sargeant didn't notice Carlos moving from the mattress until the younger man groaned in pain upon standing. Nicholai dropped his hand to find Carlos struggling across the room, grabbing his nearby desk for support. 

"You shouldn't m--"

"I'm fine!" Carlos responded chipperly, casting a soft smile over his shoulder, "Don't worry."

"Mph.."

He began to rummage through the desk drawers, opening one then the other in search of something. He gasped in relief when he located it, snatching something from the desk and closing the drawers loudly. 

Stepping closer to Nicholai, the young man crouched down before him, obviously suppressing a hiss of pain.

"Here." He opened his hand to reveal a miniature, yellow-coloured box, "For you."

Nicholai assessed the item for a moment, cigarette bobbing between his lips as his eyes grazed over the foreign object. Slowly, he raised a few fingers, grazing over the thin, wooden exterior of the item with cautious reverence.

He gasped softly when Carlos abruptly grabbed his fingers, turning his hand over and setting the box in his palm gently. For a moment, the young man's fingers lingers on his, soft and warm against his cold, calloused digits. 

"What... what is?" Nicholai cleared his throat of the peep that had become his voice, degraded English slipping past his lips as something cast a haze over his mind.

" _Muñeca quitapena_!" 

Nicholai held the box up closer to his face. It was light -- barely registering a weight at all. The yellow of the thin wood exterior had some jagged red and green markings that look like they'd been drawn on with a thick pen. A lid was very obviously and tightly fitted over top of the box. He began to prod at it, slipping it off with a quiet scrape and squinting a curious eye into the contents within.

Small, brightly coloured dolls. Five or six of them.

"It is from my country." Carlos grinned, "Worry dolls."

Nicholai flicked his cigarette onto a piece of paper he'd been using as a makeshift ashtray, cocking his head to the site, "Worry dolls?"

"Tell them your fears and worries, then put them beneath your pillow. They will take them away when you sleep, okay?"

Nicholai swallowed, eyes floating back up towards the younger man, "Some sort of... magic...?"

Carlos laughed, grinning widely, "Sort of!" He struggled to rise from the floor, releasing a panting breath when he was able to finally come to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest as the coolness of the room tickled at his skin. 

"They'll take care of you." He nodded, turning to back to his bed and skimming across the floor with the slight ragged limp that had become synonymous with every moment he'd made since his "bouts of narcolepsy" had begun.

"Like you take care of me."

**XII. SACRIFICES**

Sergei was getting irritated with Nicholai's excuses. 

The older man had shrugged in disappointment when a new procurement was suddenly presented in place of Carlos.

" _He's younger. And blonde. I know you like blondes_."

Nicholai had insisted it was too risky to take Carlos that night, an excuse Sergei had reluctantly accepted at first.

But then the next night came. And the next. And it became obvious that Nicholai was not being honest.

Sergei was tapping his finger against the wooden arm of his leather chair in irritation, other hand propping up his chin as he peered down his nose at the younger man kneeling before him. Nicholai's eyes were skirting around the intricate Russian designs in the pile of the carpet, jaw clenched as he ruminated in an obvious, deep thought.

He'd been called to the Colonel's quarters in odd-hours, the older man tepidly finishing a cigar as the Ivans escorted him in. The tension weighed thick in the otherwise silent room. Sergei didn't even have his record player on.

Nicholai didn't know how much time had passed, kneeling in that heavy, heavy tension -- but he could feel the tingling sensation of numbness setting into his legs. When Sergei spoke, it was almost a relief.

"What is going on?"

Nicholai sucked a deep breath through his nose, biting the inside of his cheek as he considered not replying, unsure of what to say.

"I... I don't know." He finally spat. A pathetic blather intersected with rubbing his hands along his thighs in anxiety.

"You don't know?" Sergei pouted slightly, mocking Nicholai's whimpering confusion. He leaned down to set his forearms on his thighs, cocking his head slightly as he dropped his voice to a harsh hiss, "Bullshit."

Nicholai felt his throat becoming heavy and strained, an iron-clad ball forming at the back of his throat making his heavy swallows of stress audible. 

"Sergei... I--"

"No more lies." The Colonel interrupted harshly, settling back in his chair again, "No more lies."

Silence and tension re-oriented themselves as the masters of the room, making space for Sergei's jagged huffs of increasing anger.

"You have _a soft spot_ for him, maybe?"

Nicholai shot a glance up, eyes wide in derisive shock, "No!" He shook his head frantically. His response was met with a sardonic bark of laughter from the older man.

"You keep lying!" Sergei was smirking cruelly, mocking the younger man's uncertainty and fear with comical sarcasm, "I practically raised you. You don't think I know when you lie to me?"

Nicholai grit his teeth and clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he mulled over the words and tried to calculate a response that never slipped out.

Silence.

The ticking of a clock was faintly clicking near the other side of the room, and Nicholai wondered why he hadn't heard it earlier. 

"You know what has to happen now."

The younger man nodded, moving to stand and unlace his boots. He subtly buttoned the clasp on his pocket before taking his jacket off, unconsciously worrying the small, yellow box inside might fall out when he tossed it to the floor.

**XIII. FAIR CHANCE**

"I think I gave you whatever the hell it was I had." 

Carlos smiled softly as he attempted a joke in the uncomfortable silence, sighing as his eyes danced over the exhausted form nestled in the white sheets. His hands were wringing in his lap anxiously, fingers rubbing along each other, knuckles cracking on occasion.

Though he was awake, Nicholai hadn't spoken the entire time Carlos had been there, ocean-blue eyes firmly fixed on the hospital ceiling in an idle, emotionless gaze. 

"Can I do anything?" Carlos cleared his throat. The vinyl-cushioned chair squeaked as he craned his body slightly, hoping to finally attract the other man's attention after over one hour of being ignored, "You want food? Something to drin--"

"Go."

The hoarse whisper cracked and hissed in a vulgar interruption of Carlos' gentle, concerned voice. The young man stopped short, every muscle in his body freezing in place. Nicholai cleared his throat, turning his head to the younger man for the first time. His eyebrows were furrowed in derisive venom, but the attempt at callousness couldn't mask the weakness lingering beneath the surface.

"Go and never speak to me again."

Carlos winced, "W... why?" 

"Just _**go**_!" Nicholai suddenly bellowed, shuddering as pain began to wrack through his body from the meticulously placed marks on his back, ones he had hid beneath a light shirt, "Fuck off!"

The young man stood quickly, a huff escaping his cocked lip as his eyes rapidly scanned the floor as though it would have the answers to questions that desperately wrought his mind but could not bubble past his lips.

As he strode to the door, Nicholai noticed his limp was gone.

With a hand on the doorknob, Carlos cast a gaze over his shoulder -- face contorted in an expression of quivering hurt. 

"Why did you _pretend_... like that?" 

Nicholai didn't respond, turning his head back to stare at the point in the ceiling he'd been fixated on earlier. 

He waited for the click of the door to close behind Carlos, letting a few shaky seconds pass before slipping his hand under his pillow to see if the yellow box of dolls was still there; as if a part of him felt that they'd disappear the moment the younger man did. 

He'd already told them the worries he had, but he knew they weren't ones that wouldn’t be taken away by morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry it took me this long! I went on a vacation with family, and my data was not good there. I also didn't bring my computer, so it was harder to start writing on my phone. 
> 
> I did not want to be OVERT with the sexual stuff or even the emotional connection that developed between Carlos and Nicholai -- leaving it all to a soft implication. 
> 
> Thank you to Ohpleasebackoff for prompting this! I am unsure if I did it justice in the way you would like, but hopefully it was okay TT-TT

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (in order)!
> 
> "Molchi/Молчи" = Shut up.
> 
> Nicholai starts in Spanish when speaking to Carlos, "Es hora, mi amigo" = It's time, my friend.
> 
> "Prostite, tovarishch/Простите, товарищ." = Sorry, comrade.
> 
> "Poroda Nikolay/Порода Николай." = Breed Nicholai.
> 
> "Vanya, idi syuda/Иван, иди сюда." = Ivan, come here.
> 
> ~  
> Note on the drugs Nicholai gives Carlos: Nepenthene, I took from the Greek Nepenthe, which is an herb that appears in Odyssey and a few other Greek tragedies to induce forgetfulness in the heartbroken. Nepenthene does not exist in real life, obviously, but the other drugs do! Vasodilators and cGMP blockers are the main components of viagra/sexual performance drugs, and a dopamine antagonist would be something that blocks good feelings/pleasure.
> 
> ~
> 
> Wow. I should just be... deleted for this, should I? >_>
> 
> Glad you.... enjoyed? Read? Finished? hopefully.
> 
> BYE


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